


「Sugar-Spun Stars; 甜到星」

by yuren



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: (maybe), Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-02
Updated: 2021-01-02
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:53:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28498608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuren/pseuds/yuren
Summary: He makes you the stars that don’t come out tonight.
Relationships: Miya Osamu/Reader
Comments: 3
Kudos: 88





	「Sugar-Spun Stars; 甜到星」

**Author's Note:**

> **a/n:** this is a birthday fic for my dearest old person [remy](https://www.starrysamu.tumblr.com)♡♡♡
> 
>  **song rec:** [amusement park - byun baekhyun.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ufX7VluncTY)

When the sun is down and the stars are late in coming out this evening — _will they even come out tonight?_ — you stand near the door of your apartment with barely enough strength in your legs to make the last few steps, staring in despair at the almost empty cup of coffee in hand.

Fuck, you shouldn’t have downed that so quickly.

How are you supposed to survive tonight’s report writing session without the boost of fool’s stimulant?

With a short sigh, you rustle around in your tote bag for the apartment keys, the straps of your shoulder bag digging into your sore shoulder. There’s definitely something about function over form, but you’re not going to snag an MD daddy with an ergonomic backpack.

You rummage your way through the five textbooks that costed both arms and a leg, the mail from today, and a stupid laptop that you definitely need to replace soon but not anytime _soon_ because a spanking new MacBook is unfortunately out of range for an overworked and underpaid grad student.

“Fuck, you look tired.”

You don’t even look up. The smooth, trickling drawl that dips a little into a sluggish baritone can only belong to your shitty neighbour who’s been coming back at the same time as you have during this entire hell of a week.

“Hello to you too, asshole,” you mumble, stabbing the key into the lock.

You hear his clanking of the keys just as you turn your doorknob.

“Too busy nerdin’ over large intestines today?”

You swear, every single time he opens his mouth, you really do wish you didn't have to hear him or see him. You don’t mind smelling him; he always smells like a dissociative scent of freshly cooked rice, crushed hazelnuts, and just a little hint of the mellowest citrus. But as strangely comforting as he smells, his smirk and sharp tongue leave much to be desired.

“Miya, I’m not in the mood right now,” you groan, walking into your apartment, letting the tote drop as gently as possible to the floor in consideration of your laptop. “I need to die for thirty minutes, pick my way through the overpriced Mediterranean plate from two days ago, and then cry over shit-test reports assigned today, due tomorrow.”

“Shit-test reports?” He echoes with a low whistle.

“Literally shit-test reports.”

You grab the door handle, sticking your head out just enough to catch his widened eyes and baffled frown.

_Not so funny now, are we, Dorito man?_

“Have a good evening,” you smile blandly. “I hope you overcook your rice.”

And your door slams shut.

Two hours later, your head is in your hands as you attempt to peel yourself up from the cool surface of the desk.

How the fuck does the low-fi hiphop girl sit there so prettily? You look like a crumpled piece of tissue that’s been battered by Chicago’s most inhumane winds in your messy ponytail, frayed college sweater, and wooly socks. At least you know you look great in your unworn sweatpants.

The nap you took had been less than satisfying. At this age, you probably should’ve figured out the intricacies of risky naps by now but apparently this is still a skillset that you’ve yet to unlock. And you don’t even want to think about the limp parsley and slightly too sour yoghurt on your falafels that you’ve abandoned by the microwave.

There’s no desire to become a sampling for the shit reports. 

Ignoring the protest of your GI tract, you reach for the cancerous instant coffee packet and water boiler instead.

Desperate times call for desperate measures.

And every second of med school qualifies as desperate time.

It’s probably for the better to just start the reports now. Once you’re almost done, you’ll heat up the egg tarts that were Postmated to you this morning. The dessert’s international senders are your only reprieve these days.

Fuck, you still haven’t logged into the server yet. Making a mental note to send a loving message and a few weaponized emojis to the group chat later, you pick up the first of many reports for the night.

“Stool is hard...lack of fibre...qualifications for IBS...”

And yeah, there they are, the attached photos. You’re not sure if you’re paid enough to look at so much human waste.

Maybe you shouldn’t eat the egg tarts tonight. They can’t possibly taste good with all these high-definition photos of shit next to them. But Yuren would yell at you for wasting the egg tarts.

She’d probably also yell at you for drinking your fifth cup of coffee of the day.

And no water.

Oh god.

Tilting back in your chair, you reach behind you for the untouched water bottle, wincing as you hear some bones creak in protest. You’re not even at quarter-life crisis yet, and you probably already need a discectomy.

This is not what you signed up for.

Taking a long sip, you shut your eyes for a second, “just five minutes”.

But then there’s a knock.

You blink, pausing to listen.

Or maybe not? Lately, you’ve been hearing your lecturer drone on about lymphatic systems even in your sleep.

So you stop again to hear if there’s a follow up knock.

There isn’t.

Yeah, you’re probably imagining things again.

But when you’re set on returning to your Russian roulette of a power nap, you hear the laziest shouting you’ve ever heard in your life.

“Oi! Did you actually die?”

His voice is so absurdly flat for such heavy words that you can’t make this shit up.

Is your rude, stupidly cute, and frustratingly good-smelling neighbour that always gets you in fight-or-flight mode really yelling at your front door at — you glance at the digital display on your speakers — midnight?

“Hello? You alive?”

Yeah, he really is.

_What the fuck._

With a long, drawn out groan that you hope he hears from the outside, you drag your feet to the front door. Through the peephole, you spot the mop of black hair and downturned frown of the boy next door.

As slowly as possible, you pull the door open, squinting at him through the sliver of space.

“She’s alive,” he grins.

“What do you want, Osamu?”

“Hmm, you look…” he starts, looking at your tired eyes and sullen scowl.

You glare at him.

“Uh, never mind,” he shrugs, shifting his weight from his left leg to the right. “Do you have a minute?”

“No.”

Your response is automatic, and you see the tick in his eye.

“C’mon,” he grimaces, “I’m tryna make us less than mortal enemies here.”

“Oh really, I couldn’t tell from earlier,” you snarl, standing up and pulling the door fully open.

Osamu snorts. “It was a _joke_.”

“Wasn’t funny.”

“How do you even get along with ‘Tsumu?”

“He actually says things the way he means them,” you roll your eyes, ready to slam the door shut in his despicably well-proportioned face again. “Unlike your little jabs and snide, little small talk here and there.”

Osamu stares at you, and you think that maybe your mouth had taken you a little too far this time.

That is before he cracks a wide grin.

“Fair enough,” he chuckles, tilting his head as he considers your appearance. “Come over.”

There’s a moment of silence.

“The fuck?” You gape at him, completely thrown off.

He shrugs, walking back to his door. “Is it that weird to invite your next-door neighbour over?”

Your eyes narrow.

“Is this your lousy attempt at an apology?”

“Yeah, it is,” he smirks, unlocking the door. “Is it workin’?”

You blink at his straightforwardness.

“What?” He’s actually smiling now. “You’re the one complainin’ that I should say things like I mean ‘em. Like ‘Tsumu, right?”

“Uh, yeah, sure, like Atsumu. Wait, no, actually, don’t be like Atsumu,” you frown, too confused by this unexpected turn of events and his sincere smile to process anything except for the fact that it’d be real bad if he thinks that you hold his twin to such high esteem now.

Osamu looks at you with quirked brow and amused smile as he just stands there, not saying anything, and you’re just looking at him looking at you.

And then he gives you a wider smile.

If your neck wasn’t going to break from its ninety-degree positioning just to look at his face, you’re sure that it would’ve snapped from the duress your body is currently under. 

Miya Osamu is smiling down at you with his eyes crinkled at the edges and cheeks pushed up into two little bunches. 

You’ve got to stop him before he cranks up that million watt smile, before your neck fucking collapses in on itself.

The words race out before you could even register them, and they’re running you straight into a freight train before you can pull the emergency break.

“You said something about a break? Sure, great, good idea. Your apartment’s probably cute, too. God, you’re really tall.”

Osamu blinks once.

Your face melts into a new level of hell.

And he bursts into a fit of laughter.

You did _not_ just sigh at him — slow exhale and all — about his height.

And you did _not_ just imply that you think he’s cute.

And fuck, did you really just agree to spend alone time with him in his apartment when your braincells are still buried six-feet under the shit-test reports?

“You’re pretty funny,” Osamu grins, interrupting your self-actualized horror movie. “Do you like ‘em taller?”

He gives you a quick glance, and all you can do is nod and hope that the eye contact was not deliberate.

“I mean,” you try to save face, shrugging what you hope is nonchalantly, “it’s not a hard criteria to fulfill.”

He laughs again, shaking his head as he leans against his door, opening it fully.

“Come in,” Osamu beckons. “It’s a lil’ messy but it’s been hell of a week so I haven’t had time to clean.”

With a quick nod of thanks, you tape yourself to the other side of the narrow doorway, making sure that the atoms on the surface of your body do not even come close to his vicinity.

“I’m sure it’s fine,” you mumble, shuffling in, taking off your shoes at the foyer.

There are a few pairs of really nice sneakers, a pair of well worn runners, and a pair of barely used dress shoes. There’s also a coat rack with black caps and several windbreakers hanging from the hooks.

You notice that there’s no sign of anything that might not be his.

Then you tell your brain to shut up for noticing this detail.

Osamu leads you down the hallway, into the living area.

“Sit wherever you like.” He gestures to the two-seater by the window before heading into the small kitchen.

His apartment is nearly a replica of yours save for the fact that it’s cleaner, better furnished, and smells really fucking good.

Your lips quirk up at several framed photos clustered on the TV stand. There are a few of his high school volleyball team — you’ve seen them in Atsumu’s place too. One that someone took of him spraying Atsumu with a gardening hose? And, uh, another of him absolutely plummeting the hell out of his twin?

Funny that you’ve never seen these at Atsumu’s place. The only photos at your friend’s apartment are of beaming smiles and idol faces. 

As you survey the space, you register once again that there’s a notable lack of anything that might suggest a significant other. You’ve never really seen him bring anyone back either.

Not that you’ve been keeping track. 

You’re just observant in general.

You turn to the kitchen to see his wide back and narrow waist behind the small island. Stupid Dorito figure making you just a little more aware that you’re somehow, in some weird turn of events, in his apartment.

“Osamu, I didn’t take you for a liar. You call this messy?”

“I mean, compared to ‘Tsumu, it’s pretty spotless.” His shoulders shake with low chuckles. “But you should meet our high school captain.”

He stoops to look into the oven before standing up and turning to you with a satisfied grin.

“It’s done.”

“Are you baking something?”

“Kinda, just warmin’ ‘em up a little.”

So that’s why his usual scent is amplified tenfold in here. It’s even sweeter, with butter and sugar mixed in with his mellow notes.

You watch him put on a pair of grey oven mitts.

“Are those penguins?”

Intrigued, you pad over to the kitchen.

“Yeah, it’s like a penguin wavin’ at you,” he grins, moving his thumb so the penguin’s wing flaps. “‘Tsumu got ‘em for me.”

“They’re cute,” you can’t help but smile, reaching your hand up to high five the penguin’s wing with your thumb.

As you pull back, your eyes meet with his for a second before you promptly look down and he clears his throat, reaching for the oven door.

“Uh, here, try these.” He pulls out a tray. “They’re pretty good warm.”

“They’re…” You peek over his shoulder as he sets them onto the counter. “Star cookies?”

“Yeah.” Opening the fridge, he pulls out a carton of almond milk, pouring some into a glass for you. “Sugar cookies.”

“Did you make them today?” You ask, picking up a perfectly shaped one.

“Yeah, after you cursed my rice.”

You flush. Suddenly, you can’t wait to stuff your face with the entire platter of cookies so you don’t have to respond.

“I, uh,” you struggle to change the topic, taking a small bite of the cookie, “I really like stars.”

“Yeah,” he smiles, just a little crookedly with the slight tilt of his head. His fingers card through his hair as he gestures for you to sit on one of the counter stools. “I kinda guessed.”

“Huh?”

Osamu takes a star from the pan.

“So this entire week, whenever you’re back from school and stuff,” he chews thoughtfully, “I see you stoppin’ on the sidewalk before goin’ in. You just kinda stand there, and look up for a few minutes.”

“Oh.” With a creeping blush on the back of your neck, you shove the rest of the cookie into your mouth.

God, it’s not like you haven’t talked to guys before. Hell, you regularly banter with his twin, someone with the exact same face and build. Atsumu teases you even more blatantly.

“You did that today, too,” he muses.

But Osamu’s is a beautiful kind of torment.

“Are you a stalker, Miya?” You smile a little awkwardly, trying to gain back your footing.

“Nah,” he laughs, “just an overworked, underpaid chef.”

“Yeah, tell me about it.” You grab your glass of almond milk, remembering the reports abandoned on your desk. “Guess we have one or two things in common.”

“I think we’ve got more.”

“Yeah?”

“I like stars, too.” His voice is mellow, like the almond milk that cuts through the aggressive sweetness of the sugar cookies. “And coffee from that one place a few blocks down.”

“Wait, for real?”

“Yeah, but I drink ‘em in normal quantities,” he smirks while offering you another cookie, “y’know, like a normal person.”

“Oh, shut up,” you can’t help but smile along. “You try looking at those shit-test reports.”

“Thanks but I’m good,” he laughs.

Osamu stands a little more relaxed now, his shoulders levelling, eyes softening with the midnight scent of sugared laughter. Your heart beats just a little faster, accelerating as if intent to break into the stratosphere.

“We both work with food,” Osamu continues with a low hum, counting off his mental list in all seriousness. “I work with the entry, and you’re workin’ with the exit.”

You almost choke as you hurry to cover your mouth full of starry sweets.

You want to tell him to shut up, but he’s not wrong.

“Yeah, okay, fair.”

When he starts to tell you how he likes yoghurt in the mornings (with his homemade granola), prefers Mexican hot chocolate with tequila, and debates with you on whether “Beautiful” or “Amusement Park” vibes more, you think that maybe Atsumu’s right for once; you might really come to enjoy his twin’s company.

So much so that it’s only when his alarm goes off and he’s reminded that he needs to check up on his _kōji_ fermentation do you realize that, fuck, it’s actually already two in the morning and you should probably go back.

“I should probably go back,” you sigh, “to those shitty reports.”

Osamu’s smile is light as he gets up from the couch, extending a hand to pull you up as well.

“Let me know when you’re free,” he grins. “Don’t want you to live off overpriced Mediterranean leftovers.”

You flush a little as you nod. “This is really sweet of you, you know. You didn’t have to bake me cookies.”

“Gotta apologize for being an asshole earlier,” he chuckles, slowly leading you towards the entrance. “And I get to find out that you’re pretty fun to talk to.”

“Oh, uh.” Fuck, he’s really taking the ‘say things the way you mean them’ thing seriously. “Thanks,” you stutter out, quickly slipping on your shoes as he holds the door open for you.

“So, yeah, lemme know when I can start makin’ dinner for two.” He gives you a wink as you quickly squeak out a “sure thing!” before hurtling down the hallway.

“Your apartment’s the other way!”

Fuck. He’s right.

You quickly turn around with a plastered on smile. “Yeah, I know, haha. I’m just gonna see if there’s any mail downstairs,” you laugh statically, rounding the corner. “See you later, Osamu!”

Once you’re sure you’re out of sight and you can’t hear anymore of his cackling, you fall back against the hallway wall and smush your face into your hands.

_What the fuck._

You’re never going to live this down.

But first, you have to live through your reports.

Taking a deep breath, you mentally count up to sixty. Peeking around the corner, you make sure that his door is firmly shut before bolting back to your apartment door.

You heave another sigh as you grab your keys.

Shit.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

You can’t believe how cliché this is getting.

With a long groan, you step back to Osamu’s door, taking a breath as you press the doorbell.

One second.

Ten seconds.

Maybe he’s in the washroom?

You ring again.

“Comin’.”

His voice echoes from the interior of the apartment as you wait until the door pulls back.

“Oh hey, you’re back,” he grins. “Got new mail?”

He’s now changed into a loose sweater and grey sweatpants — what the fuck — and looking a little unkempt as you spot a smidge of toothpaste residue on the corner of his lips.

Honestly, the world just wants to see you make a fool out of yourself by putting Miya Osamu here, at this moment, with your shitty luck.

“I, um,” you look at him sheepishly, “I got locked out.”

His eyebrows shoot up into the mess of black hair.

“Yeah, kinda really dumb, I know,” you mumble, wanting to just disintegrate into a puddle of ashen braincells and unresolved emotions at his feet.

Osamu closes his eyes for a second as his smile drops.

“Ah shit, sorry,” Osamu sighs, running a hand through his already mussed up hair, his lips slanting downwards. “Damn, I should’ve reminded you.”

“No, what?” You immediately look up at him, eyes wide. “What’re you apologizing for? I was just being dumb and actually forgot my keys inside.”

“Hey, hey, don’t be so harsh on yourself,” he frowns. “Do you have anyone keepin’ the spare key for you?”

“Yeah,” you swallow, “the landlord.”

Osamu’s frown plateaus.

“The one who’ll literally chop our heads off if we disturb her at three in the mornin’.”

“Yeah,” you sigh. “Can I just borrow your phone? I, uh, left my phone in there too. I’ll see if I can crash at a friend’s or something.”

His expression lifts into a neutral contemplation as he looks at you, lips slightly downturned and brows furrowed. You pull on your sleeves as you wait.

He just continues looking at you.

“I, uh,” you try again, “I promise I won’t take long.”

He blinks, looking a little surprised before shaking his head.

“No, I wasn’t thinkin’ ‘bout that,” he reassures you with a small smile. “Just, y’know, if you don’t mind, you can stay at my place for a few hours. Until the landlord wakes up.”

Oh.

_Oh._

“Uh, it’s okay.” You take a small step back, your sad attempt at laughing away the matter comes out in stuttering waves. “I, uh, don’t want to be a bother, you know.”

“No, I’m serious. It’s fine.” His tone is so casual, confident and self-assured, and you just think that it should be illegal for someone to have both the looks and the humble confidence all packaged in six-foot-one-something of broad shoulders and tiny waist. And he’s easy to talk to. “You should get some rest before you do those reports.”

With the way that he’s grinning at you expectantly, nothing but a mellow warmth coming from his open door and inviting hand, and with the way that you are indeed really fucking exhausted, you sigh, putting down the past of unresolved tension with the boy next door.

It’s undeniable that the two of you have bonded earlier tonight, and you’d be lying if you weren’t interested in becoming friends at the very, very least.

“Okay, you’re right,” you mutter, walking through the threshold into his apartment for the second time ever. “I hope I’m not being a bother.”

This time, Osamu notices that you’re not trying to become one with the wall as you pass by him, the edges of your sweatshirt brushing against his hand.

“Sweetheart, trust me,” he smiles, slowly shutting the door behind the two of you, “you’re really not.”

Your heart picks up at “sweetheart”, and you can’t ignore the way how his voice softened to reassure you. He leads the way to a bedroom of a decently-sized bed, a closet, and a writing desk and chair. Like the rest of the apartment, it’s clean and simple.

“It’s all yours.” He gestures to the bed. “Lemme know if you need anything. I’ll be outside.”

“What about you?”

You don’t know what you expected. He has the exact same apartment as you do, so you’re not even sure why you’d think that he’d have two bedrooms.

But now, your hot next door neighbour that you’re increasingly warming up to is offering you his bed to sleep in for the last few hours of the night.

And since you’re now being honest with yourself, you definitely won’t mind if he shares it with you. 

“I’ve got to take care of the fermentation and hit up some artisanal butter providers in France,” he grins, sitting down on one side of the bed. “The bakery’s opening soon.”

“How bougie,” you smirk, slipping under the grey comforter. It’s soft and worn like everything else that is Osamu.

“Go to sleep,” he laughs. “I’ll make you breakfast when you wake up.”

“With coffee?” You peek at him hopefully.

“One shot.”

“Two shots.”

“No.”

“Fine, do it your way,” you huff, snuggling further into the comforter.

He chuckles before standing up. You already miss the way that the bed dips under his weight.

“You’re cute.” You can’t see him but you can hear the mellow amusement in his starlit tone. 

He quietly pads to the door, and turns off the lights.

“Good night, Osamu,” you hastily call out before turning to your side and throwing the comforter over your head. 

He laughs softly, and gently pulls the door shut.

“Good night, sweetheart.”


End file.
